The resurrection of Sherlock Holmes
by AnnMore
Summary: Molly Hooper brought Sherlock Holmes back from the dead. Will she be able to bring him to life, too? Molly has to think of how to keep Sherlock's mind and body busy for 14 long days...
1. Chapter 1

The chest of the tall, lanky man on the couch was heaving placidly, his dark curly hair plastered against the sleep-moistened forehead. The eyelids of the man started to tremble, his eyeballs were twitching rapidly as if chasing some chaotic inner vision. Maybe it was one of those rare moments even the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes, too, was exposed to erratic subconscious powers - the closest to ever being vulnerable. Molly had already heard him utter words in his sleep, words she couldn't make sense of, although she surmised 'John', John Watson, was surely one of them.

It was weirdly endearing watching him like that - in his sleep - as if Sherlock Holmes were a child entrusted to her care. Molly Hooper had to admit this was how she felt more than once in the past months of Holmes' (and hers) subterranean existence. Save for the times she wrestled through the familiar bitter-sweet agony of 'being around Sherlock Holmes' - which was always.

The Sherlock Holmes the world knew was dead now, though. The man on the couch in the shabby appartment in London East didn't exist for the time being, til futher notice. The appartement had been hired by Molly Hooper on Sherlock's request, and from the very moment the detective moved in, he had been spending nights and days behind his Mac (purchased entirely new - from scratch, - again by Molly Hooper). In addition, Molly acted as his trustee and envoy for various assignments all over the city. She knew Sherlock himself ventured outside a few times. and this knowledge nearly got her as far as to take up praying, although she realised her faith in Sherlock was still much greater than in God.

As far as she could ascertain, Holmes' endeavours were aimed at dismantling the remains of Moriarty's network, by expanding, tightening and manipulating his own (the details of the process were never imparted to Molly - for obvious reasons, she assumed). At the moment, though, Sherlock's enquiries seemed to have reached the point of saturation, and with results not imminently in sight, his frantic energy of the first days gave way to - as yet - manageable irrascibility. When he didn't measure the room with his long legs, he lay on the couch without moving, giving in from time to time to shallow, tiresome sleep of someone who is not actually tired.

With a heavy sigh. the man on the couch opened his eyes. His light blue gaze was crystal-clear, devoid of any signs of sleepiness, as if he were able to quantum jump from the state of sleep to alertness.

'Molly?'

The low throaty baritone startled Molly, and she realised she had been staring at at the sleeping man in pyjamas and a robe for some time now.

'I brought food,' she murmured, picked up her Tesco bags in both hands and waddled hurriedly to the tiny kitchen, where she started emptying them on the table.

Sherlock's disheveled, gangly figure emerged at the kitchen door a few moments later, and Molly realised, somewhat alarmed, that he wouldn't have done this only a week earlier. It looked like Sherlock Holmes suffered from a medium to severe form of sensory and/or intellectual deprivation; in other words, he was bored to death.

'I've got milk, bread, Penguin biscuits (which you never eat, she wanted to add, but refrained). 'The Telegraph'.

'Thank you, Molly.' As expected, he grasped the newspaper right away and scanned across the pages absent-mindedly (which was a mere visibility, though, as Molly knew Sherlock mastered reading in the diagonal, actually he had even perfectioned it).

'Boring,' he concluded at last, threw the newspaper back on the table and looked straight up at Molly, who cringed inwardly feeling absurdly responsible for not being able to provide Sherlock's analytic intellect with a noteworthy challenge.

'England won against France yesterday, 2-1. Huge news in the mortuary. No, not in the mortuary - I mean, in the mortuary, too - you know what I mean - I mean -, ' she stammered.

Sherlock didn't bat an eyelid, and Molly simply knew she had to leave as soon as possible lest she should beat her own records of awkwardness. She was quite happy she already had an excuse, and she didn't even have to lie.

'I have to leave now...I'm already late...'

'The London National theatre, 'Roberto Zucco' at 8 p.m., seat 9H ?' asked Sherlock deadpan.

_Oh no, not that, too._

'OK, just tell me - , ' she uttered hopelessly.

Sherlock said dryly: 'Molly. The last five minutes you've been rearranging the contents of your handbag on the table right in front of me. Presumably, you have been looking for this -

With eyes widened in horror, Molly watched his long nimble fingers run through her things and hand over to her her very own 'Advanced membership' card with her ticket for the show attached.

'You're getting absent-minded, Molly,' Sherlock added in exactly the same voice, the present continuous tense instead of the present simple actually being a major concession on his part. Barely registering her own ministrations, Molly put everything back into her huge formless handbag and thought: 'Absent-minded? I'm only absent-minded when I'm not at work. When I work, I don't miss a thing. You should have seen me doing that brain post-mortem this morning. I'm actually very good at my work. Not the best, not the only, but still - . The rest of the time I am a total mess. Just like you, but you probably don't even know it, or you don't give a damn - and I do, and oh god, I give a damn for two.'

For a moment, she entertained a crazy idea to blurt it out without giving a damn, but ended up with an unadressed moan:

'When will it end?'

'Exactly what?' Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

Molly quickly gathered herself and said in her best 'normal' voice:

'This. This appartement? You being dead?'

'Hmm. Resurrection, you say.' Sherlock's words came out as a dry rasp somewhere at the back of his throat. Molly froze at the sound of his voice and only stirred up when he added:

'Do you think it's still worth it?'

'What are you talking about?' She shouted out, suddenly terrified.

'Don't worry, Molly.' A strange smirk curled the left side of his mouth. 'It's so boring. Staying dead.'

'


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for the interest! (As for the 'smirk', I simply alluded to Moriarty's remark in RF, smth. like 'it's so boring, staying alive.' My Sherlock is struggling to process the recent dramatic events, without actually being aware of this...)_

_Disclaimer. 'Roberto Zucco' by Bernard-Marie Coltes, the version of the ADC theatre in Cambridge._

...

The good thing about Sherlock Holmes was that he didn't expect anyone in his proximity indulge himself or herself in casual small talk. Quite on the contrary, Sherlock Holmes strongly preferred silence and merely acknowledged somebody's presence when he himself needed it. And Molly Hooper was probably the only person who could appreciate Holmes' style of communication, albeit for improper reasons. Every time she felt someone was approaching her for a babble, the familiar despair befell her. She stammered, missed her turn, gave inappropriate answers. In the end, people adressed her but in urgent cases, only to spare her (and themselves) the embarrasment.

Sherlock Holmes came to the mortuary and didn't say a word for days, although she was present most of the time (and he only had access to the lab during her evening and night shifts). With him, she was absolutely sure he wasn't pretending, he actually _didn't_ see her, engrossed by his current research. It gave her an unexpected sense of freedom. She wasn't being ignored, she was invisible. She watched him from behind her text book (the second year forensic pathology), hovering around the place, impeccably elegant, ephemerical, unwordly beautiful. At times, she couldn't shake off the impression it was a ghost who had returned to investigate his own death, and giggled.

Sherlock Holmes was the only person as weird as she was, if not weirder; he was as hopeless in social situations as she was, despite his astounding intellect and eloquence. They met each other in the mortuary where she reigned over corpses Sherlock Holmes needed for his inquiries. This made perfect sense.

...She dreamt of the merciless cold, of the marble, unresponding body under her desperate, incessantly moving hands, her fingers going numb; of being just in time. Of being so happy it hurt.

...

The flimsy slot gave in without effort (the slot was not meant to protect, and Sherlock was basically hiding in the plain sight). She sneaked inside noiselessly, in case Sherlock was sleeping.

He wasn't. Instead, he sat curled up on the couch, his navy blue satin robe strayed around him, with the laptop on his knees and didn't look up. Hesitatingly, Molly took this as a good sign, as this was the normal course of the most of her previous visits. She would go to the kitchen now and set a couple of large coffee cans she had brought along one day. While working, Sherlock Holmes consumed all the coffee he eventually came accross somewhere (usually in his kitchen), but he never bothered to set coffee himself.

Sherlock Holmes marched into the kitchen with the sneery air of a bored aristocrat in charge of a major military campaign. He briefly leaned over Molly Hooper's shoulder with an absent look, hands behind his back.

'Coffee,' he stated.

'A cup of coffee? Black, two sugars?'

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock said, making himself comfortable on the kitchen stool. Straddling it betwen his monstruously long legs in pyjamas, wringing his bare slender feet in unbelievable angles under the chair, which came to look really tiny.

'So, how was the show?' he asked finally.

Molly's hand froze in the air. 'What?' She _had _thought about the show a lot, but she definitely didn't expect Sherlock Holmes would bring it up.

'It was - good - it was very good - I guess,' she hated herself for being so lame-tongued, as usual.

Suddenly, Sherlock broke out in a terse breathless recite, his voice ironically pitching at necessary places: _'Based on an infamous true story, Roberto Zucco concerns a charismatic serial murderer — a young, lost soul who philosophically seduces his prey, driven by forces he can't control.' _Molly turned around, gasping_. _Sherlock grinned at her: 'Is that it, Molly?'

Molly shook her head in disbelief: 'Did you - did you see it, too?'

Sherlock's mouth cringed disdainfully: 'Oh for goodness' sake, Molly. I keep myself to the facts. _Obviously, _I haved studied the Roberto Zucco case in some detail, besides the numerous others.

Adressing an imaginary audience, he spewed another tirade: '_It's a cruel play, but it's also syrupy sweet at times, proof that Koltes felt sentiment and forgiveness - _' He interrupted himself, turning abruptly to Molly: 'Wrong! This Koltes is wrong, and you are wrong if you believe this. Roberto Zucco was not a sleazy spineless figure catering to public sentiment. I assure you, Roberto Zucco didn't need sentiment nor forgiveness. '

Molly's cheeks glowed fiercelly, she wanted nothing less than to discuss this further. Nevertheless, she murmured: 'Maybe he only didn't know he needed it - '

Holmes had jumped on his feet and now towered over her, his lips and eyes a thin line.

'Oh that's how you squeeze things you don't understand into your cosy little world. You glue everything together with a sentiment and think it actually fits in. You want everything make sense so badly. Some things just don't fit in! Anywhere! Villains! Heroes! No. Some people just don't fit in - ' There was something contradictory to this she failed to put her finger on with Sherlock's intense stare on her. She thought she could see an unbearable strain in his gaze, as well as exhaustion, and her hearth skipped a beat, as always, when she sensed something was wrong, something was wrong with him.

Meanwhile, Holmes had returned to the table, calmed down, splayed his hands over the surface. 'You asked me how long this would take, remember?' She nodded.

The tall man joined his lean musician's fingers under the chin and wiggled them thoughtfully. 'Listen. Over fifteen days - there will be an escape from -,' he paused. 'The name of the location is irrelevant. There is virtually no chance you will ever hear of it, as officially it doesn't exist, and the semi-official rumours are all intentionally wrong. However, _this_ name you will hear a lot in your - our - near future. Sebastian Moran. He will pay his respect to me as soon as possible. If only to make some inquiries about his late master.'

'And I thought you were dead. To everyone.' Molly's lips moved nearly without her consent. She was mesmerized by Sherlock's closed eyes, and the shadows his eyelashes were throwing on the pale cheekbones.

'Oh, Mr. Moran does not know yet he's coming to see _me. _And when he does - ' a dreamy smile on his lips did not match the menacing innuendo of his words. 'He will also be probably thrilled to thank _me _for organizing his escape_. Probably.' _


	3. Chapter 3

'Ok, but it is not what I asked. It's not the end. It's the beginning of your new - game - ' Molly couldn't supress bitterness at the last word, but Sherlock didn't seem susceptible to it. 'Yes,' he briefly confirmed.

'And how long will _this _take then?'

Sherlock dismissed her question with a nonchalant gesture. In his other hand he was holding a cup of fresh coffee and now groped around for sugar. 'No idea. A week. A year. As long as it takes. Till the end. Whatever it is.'

'You have to tell John. Let me do it - ' the words slipped off the tip of her tongue before she even realised she was going to say it. John. John was important. Too important. Sherlock's back went visibly stiff, he didn't turn around. 'No.' It came out flat, emotionless and resolute.

Suddenly, she was angry. 'Do you really think John won't be able to keep the secret, give you away? What kind of friend are you? He is devastated -'

'I can't have him waiting,' Sherlock said in a low tense voice, swiftly covering the distance between them, his mouth twitching. 'I can't have him waiting for me to come back, all well and alive,' he repeated more calmly. 'It will tie me down. I have to take into account all possible outcomes. And besides he will rush in, the fool, and get himself killed as well.' This 'as well' sent a pang through her heart, or maybe the half-mockery, fiercely affectionate grimace she had long learned to associate with Sherlock speaking about 'John.' Waiting? Molly Hooper is very good in it. She will surely learn John the tricks of the trade.

Meanwhile, Sherlock exploded. He dug his nails into his handpalms, clenched his teeth as if trying to withhold as hard as he could the feral force propelling him from inside.

'Oh god!' he exclamed forcefully from the deep of his longs. 'Molly, stop, stop it all, my brain is floating in rubbish! Fifteen days - it is too long!'

'But it isn't the first time you need to wait, is it? Molly was genuinely confused.'I thought - '

Sherlock cut her off impatiently. 'Not like this! I am incarcered, in case you haven't noticed. I cannot move, I depend on other people, I can't even use the mortuary to distract myself - '

The last phrase didn't really struck her, although she could think of at least two reasons for it; it was pointless with Sherlock Holmes anyway. She contemplated on the solutions instead.

'I can bring you some specimens. I can bring you books to read -'

'I don't read books,' sneered Sherlock at her.

Molly was taken aback, as this pronouncement stood in a blatant contradiction to the giant heaps of books in his appartement (any attempts to introduce bookshelves proved a huge failure on John's part). Even in his current room she could observe a considerable number of books and magazines.

'I don't read_ books_,' explained the purse-lipped Sherlock Holmes. 'I search and extract _information _which happens to be contained in books - but not exclusively in books. Internet, people, places. Actually, there are only two sorts of information: online and offline. I only read books when I don't have access to the internet, people and places, or when I don't need it.'

'So you still can read - eh - search interesting information, you have all the necessary means,' Molly countered weakly.

'I don't need _interesting_, I need _relevant. I thought it was obvious. _The information I need is not online, not in a book or books; not contained in places and persons I currently have access to.' Sherlock's cold blue gaze scraped over her; it was obvious he didn't even mean what he just had said to be taken personally. 'I only have fifteen days to kill, and no weapon.'

This left Molly speechless, and she simply stared blankly and helplessly at Sherlock Holmes, who, out of a sudden, seemed to have regained all his composure and suaveness. With those eerie eyes, taking her in with a sort of cool compassion, Molly Hooper felt trapped in his presence and unable to move.

'Molly,' he drawled softly. 'You can help me.' And, after a pause: 'Dr. Dalton at the Ear, Nose and Throat Centre is a strong proponent of cocaine hydrochloride solution as an anesthetic. 4 percent. I happen to know, accidentally, Dr. Dalton actually prefers the 7 percent solution, strictly outside the surgery room. At least this was the case two years ago. Otherwise, 4 percent will do. Molly?'

Suddenly, something knacked inside Molly's chest, a tiny, extremely vulnerable spot, intimately situated within the rib cage, according to anatomy maps. She could see things exceedingly clearly now, the details neatly clicked together and made perfect sense. Sherlock taking an improbable interest in her whereabouts; being unnaturaly talkative; willing to explain things and endure her comments. Sherlock and her actually having a conversation.

She distinctly felt her longs filling in with an agonizingly cold air. The next moment she heard herself talk and was amazed at how self-assured she sounded:

'No.'

...

She spotted a spark of genuine astonishment in Holmes' eyes.

'Why, if I may ask?' he sounded like someone confronted with a malfuction of an instrument which had served for years unfalteringly.

'I hope you are not making the mistaking of protecting my health. The state of my health is perfect, thank you. If you think I cannot handle the 4 percent solution - you may have not been as interested in my person as I assumed.'

Molly didn't feel capable of answering, all what she could pull off, was to keep an unwavering eye contact with Sherlock Holmes. The tall man looked amused.

'OK. If you prefer to stick to you principles - admirable as they are, - I'm afraid I have no other choice but to address other sources - _on street - _as you may have deduced by now. To tell the truth, I personally prefer the latter, purely in terms of the _quality _of the product. Yet all the same, it is more dangerous in every possible way, and I'm using an euphemism here.'

'It is up to you, Molly,' he added almost patronizingly.

The last remains of the refreshing coolness in her chest dissipated, and she was flushing all the way again. Molly was absolutely sure Sherlock meant every word he said. She scarcely heard her voice as she spoke:

'I will do it.'

Not looking at him, she grabbed her bags and dragged herself outside. In the lift, she rested her head against the wall. Her phone rang. A message. Reluctanly, she gazed on the screen:

'Philip Morris lights, too. If you don't mind.'


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for the 'pianist's fingers' correction. Of course, Sherlock doesn't play piano...

Molly Hooper's efforts fell flat? Hmm, I wouldn't say so, I wouldn't say so, my darlings:)

And it's only the beginning...of something more...

* * *

How can it be so cold in here? It has never been this cold in the morgue. It's her work after all; usually, her fingers would go just slightly numb, and her mind icily sharp, operating methodically, going through every step prescribed by her pathologist's text book. But now, now, it's just the other way round; a stupefying haze murders her brain, needles are stuck in the tops of her fingers.

She is not afraid of the dead; death, yes, death is a mystery, but the dead aren't. A dead body is rolled in, essentially anonymous, stripped of any meaning it may still hold in death and in burial - the most final of all destinations. Her work is that of a ticket seller at a transit station.

Not this time, not this time, and she panicks. She is supposed to be prepared, and yet - when Mandy rushes in, breathes his - _his _- name loudly into her ear, with a gust of cold air, and whispers the rest of the story, she simply panicks. Avoid the eyes, commands her brain at last - thank god, everyone is avoiding hers. Molly Hooper is Sherlock Holmes' - his - his pathologist. 'I will do it. Leave me alone.' It's here that her body - not even her mind - kicks in and carries her along. She cuts through the thick expensive stuff of his coat - after a haphazard raid her hands execute on the shelves in search for a dissection knife. It was the last moment of vacillation - the rest is thoughtless and flawless. Injecting the antidote he had given her beforehand in his seemingly dead veins; exposing his marble chest - the shirt has to be torn open, too, no time for buttons; her desperate - yet methodically moving - hands exerting pressure, pumping rhytmically on his heart; her desperate mouth on his breathless, lifeless mouth -

- until, it seemed, there was as much of her in him, - in his lungs, veins, blood - than in her own body, if not more. Only that much was enough, and she saw, heard, sensed herself in the first painful spasm of his heart, the twinkle of his temple, in the lips turning pink, finally. A tiny Molly Hooper appearing in his dilatated pupils. Then, at relentless speed - exit Sherlock Holmes (in a body bag, shoved in an utensils' room only she had the keys from), enter the 'other body,' as they kept calling it during the preparation. After the dissection, Molly Hooper drives home, overwhelmed by emotions.

OK. She brought this man back from the dead, but not all of him. And she thought she knew why. For the first time in his life there was more to Sherlock Holmes than his razor-sharp intellect, functionally attached to his lean bodily frame. To resuscitate his body wasn't enough, with the invisible threads, connecting him to life, hanging loose, torn off, so hopelessly entangled. First - before her, definitely before John - he was simply alone. It was transparent, clear, convenient. But then. Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson. Detective Lestrade. Molly Hooper. (Mycroft Holmes?) The highly exclusive club of Protecting Sherlock Holmes from Sherlock Holmes. The first rule of the Club: don't talk about the Club, she often mused, half-ironically, half-bitterly. And they didn't. Not even when crossing each other's path on official, tedious occasions, like Christmas; planets, all circling in closer or more remote orbits around their inhospitable, capricious star. Still in obvious need of one another. Why? Because inhospitable stars often attract equally inhospitable, damaged planets, and all together they form an uneasy, paradoxal, predestined whole? And when something tears the whole apart, all its members who were simply alone once, become lonely. Lost. All, including Sherlock Holmes.

People often judged Sherlock Holmes either an emotionless machine or one with a monstruous self-control. Molly knew that neither was true. Sherlock's were raw, primal, black-and-white, unbearably intense emotions, but he seemed to have no grip of them whatsoever. The only way for him to function on his normal - read: superhuman - level, was to shut off this side of his personality completely, - which he did for ninety-nine percent of the time. And it has always worked. Untill now.

Normally, Sherlock Holmes didn't use drugs when on case. Normally. _Normally _was over. And Molly Hooper was the only one to protect him now. From things worse than death.

* * *

Sherlock's TV was on. She could hear a news host rattle on and on about the situation in the Middle East. Sherlock watching TV was not unusual, yet rare. The sound went out almost immediately, as if to confirm her musing. Holmes was sitting in the appartement's only armchair beside the couch. For once, he wasn't wearing an inevitable dressing gown over one of the pristinely white shirts Molly had bought for him along with various other clothing articles (of which none received any attention from Sherlock save for the second exemplar of his scandalously expensive Belstaff coat).

The next thing she noticed was a bottle of the red Chateau Corbiac, uncorked, on the small bedside table and a glass of wine swaying between the unbearably elegant fingers of Sherlock Holmes. Needless to say, wine was, too, one of the spoil-free food products Molly has acquired for Sherlock, 'just in case.' Even she never expected it would be actually consumed.

Sherlock cocked his head at Molly, but she gave him due respect: the tall man did an excellent job to conceal any impatience he might have been experiencing in the mean time. Probably, the wine helped him to kill time.

'Have you got it?' He asked in a clear steady voice, very obviously not expecting to hear 'no', his eyes glued to the mousy bag Molly was squeezing so anxiously her knuckles went white. For the rest, he didn't move, stretched out on the chair in full length, both his arms dangling loosely over the railings. Looking at him, so decadently, eerily handsome, made her suddenly crave for wine.

'Yes, of course.' And she couldn't withstand the urge: 'May I - ?'

'Oh, I insist,' he ennunciated lazily and swayed with his own glass towards the small table, and only now Molly noticed the second wine glass, apparently waiting for her.

She dawdled hesitatingly as the bag in her hands turned out to be an unexpected obstacle on her way to the wine. A decrepit low table in the middle of the room, at some distance from the chair and the counch, looked like the most convenient place.

Sherlock's eyes followed her - or rather the bag - all the time. Not paying any attention to him for a while, Molly took her first thirsty sips at the glass and emptied it. It felt so good, as if a spiral of melted lead pierced her stomach only to infuse her with a liberating shot of energy. Molly considered a second glass, and her hands promptly took the order.

'So you've got it?' For the first time Sherlock showed some impatience, his brow furrying, a sign of slight discontent.

'Oh yes.' Here Molly gave a short abrupt laughter she herself didn't expect. 'Dr. Dalton, he is such a sweet man. He said you have literally opened his eyes!'

'Did he?' Sherlock mumbled rather neutrally, yet with some degree of satisfaction. His lips curled in approval, but his right hand fingers started to tap a rhytmical sequence on the table. It was time.

-Yes, it was time. Briefly, she saw herself in her bedroom before her dresser this morning. She was looking in the mirror and saw nothing. She was pulling the la. -

'Sherlock? Molly said, looking him in the eye. 'I want to ask you something first. I want to show you something. Here.'

She remained still for a few seconds, her fingers groping in the spacious pocket of her inelegant pair of trousers. The subject she had pulled out, was a ring, a plain golden wedding ring. Suddenly she realized how it looked like, her, standing before Sherlock Holmes with a wedding ring in her hand, and bit her lip. The hymeneal subtext was apparently lost on Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand, Sherlock's reaction mesmerized her. At once, he looked extremely concentrated, sober and alert, leaning forward to take the ring - and Molly Hooper herself - in.

'Your father's?' he informed casually, stretching out his hand to examine the ring closer and then weighting it on the hand palm.

'Why do you think so?' asked Molly slowly, after a beat.

'The way you treat the ring. The only - married - person you invest with this level of reverence is your father. What?' He asked quickly, while his eyes narrowed in an obvious effort to predict the forthcoming complication.

'The problem is - I am not sure. It _is_ his ring. It is _his _ring. And it is not.'

'Tell me. Now.' And now he was leaning back in the chair, the lean steepled fingers woven into a familiar triangle at the level of the lips.


	5. Chapter 5

I never really _examined_ his ring.' Sherlock pursed his lips, indicating the expectable lack of surprise at the confession. Meanwhile Molly continued. 'One thing I do remember: once his finger was swollen so badly that the ring had to be cut open. The welding joint after they fixed it was very much visible, and I liked to turn it round his finger -' She swallowed. This ring -' she pointed to the table with the ring- 'has no such joint. But you can always remove it, and he was about to do it -'

'Wait,' Sherlock said promptly, raising his hand. 'Your father was a doctor and he died a year ago, didn't he?' Molly nodded, her emotions between her teeth. She had kept a small portrait of her father with the dates on her table ever since the death, and Holmes doubtlessly saw it, athough, in his usual fashion, he never said a word about it. (Till she spoke about her father herself - stop, Molly, stop right away.)

'And your mother?'

''My mother - she lives in Stafordshire - ' she said a bit off the track. She had difficulty to keep her voice up this time. Holmes spoke further, his eyes scrutinizing her, as if to catch up with her reaction:

'The ring was among his belongings and you didn't show it to your mother.'

Molly was duly prepared, and yet the amazement in her voice was real: 'Yes, but - ?

'You wouldn't be carrying it so nonchalantly in you pocket, if Mrs. Hooper knew about its existence. You would have brought it in a decent ring case. I suspect there is no such a case. There are recent bruises and scratches on the ring,' he opened his hand palm with the ring on it and examined the ring once more. 'I've found some on the inside, too. This ring has not been cleansed or taken care of at least once, contrary to the habits of any honorable doctor's widow and a daughter.'

His voice increased in volume while speaking, and regained the 'normal' staccato rhytme. Molly flushed fiercely, unable to tear her eyes off Holmes' pale, eager face, the characteristic slant fold forming at the corner of his mouth. These minor deductions were not that indispensable, but Molly understood that Holmes _needed _this little mental muscle flexing, quite desperately.

Yes.' Molly found herself fiddling with the hem of her blouse. 'I was sorting out of his clothes - and - and - there it was.'

Sherlock's full lips curved with satisfaction.

The reason of her doubts lay now on the table between two of them, innocently blinking. The wine bottle, fortunatelly, was there, too.

'He wasn't wearing his wedding ring at the moment of his death ,' This sounded more as a statement than a question. Focused and attentive, Holmes was waiting for her to continue. With a wine glass in her hend, Molly forced herself into a detached mode of thinking to protect herself from - still vivid - memories.

'His fingers - were so thin. Like Chinese eating sticks - he used to joke about that - ' She paused and added: 'Glioblastoma multiforme. Malicious brain tumor. At the end he was no more than a bag full of bones.' Holmes nodded, remaining utterly calm. Molly didn't mind. She felt her own insides turn into a giant bag of ice, and it helped to maintain calmness, at least outwardly. 'But he he didn't wear it since the very last time he came back from mission, actually.' It was the first time this struck her mind, and Holmes, whose jaws visibly stiffened, rendering his angular face a predatory look, eyed her intently.

'Doctors without borders', he murmured. 'Where else a retired psysician like your father could have been on mission?' When Molly confirmed his guess with silence, Sherlock marched on:

'South Sudan? ? Out every six months?'

'My father - eh - regularly. Once a year. Our family tradition. He brought back the spring, or the winter, or the summer, it depended, of course. It was also his joke. The first time he was on mission was the longest one, twelve months.'

'Fifteen to twenty years ago?'

This time Molly nodded without surprise. She was carried away by the current of the past, and it felt so good it hurt. She sipped at her glass.

'Angola. They started there in 1983. Then, Kenya, Somalia. He brought presents. Stupid, funny presents. My mother still has this collection of hats, ok, anything that reminded of hats - he called it _cosmopolitan __headgear - _with feathers, shells, nuts. Oh God - And I - '

'Molly.' Sherlock's voice was cool and unrelenting. 'Molly.'

She looked at him, swaying her wine glass between her fingers. She was swaying with her knee, too, feeling unbelievably comfortable and relaxed in the armchair next to Sherlock's couch where the detective was sitting at the moment, his robe loosely swerving all around him. Only now she noticed that Sherlock's lean hand was juggling with his - empty - glass. His eyes - a ravine of gray - were staring at her only slightly amused.

'Molly. I know why your father had another ring when he came back to you and your mother to die.' Molly shivered. 'But my question is: why you, Molly Hooper, ask me this question when you yourself know the answer. Because you do.'

'I -' Molly stammered.

'You know that your father had two wedding rings. Not that odd if you ponder. He married another woman the very first time he was on mission, a collegue, I presume. And he bought another ring. This ring.' Sherlock snatched the ring before Molly could lay her hand on it. 'This ring is about 20 years old, as old as Astley Clarke; tiny a.s. right here, look,' the tiny treacherous ring dissapeared on the huge palm of Sherlock Holmes. 'Everything went just perfect. Our good doctor had two families, both of which were considerably happy. Till the good doctor went ill.' Sherlock Holmes had rarely countered huger doses of hatred. Molly was cringing on her armchair, her nails in her handpalms.

'Our good doctor decided to return to Mrs. Hooper Nr. 1 and Ms. Hooper Nr.1. But he forgot to change the ring. No-one can blame him. _Glioblastoma multforme.' _

Molly Hooper tears glide down her cheeks like snails. She raised her glass and saluted Sherlock Holmes. There was wine, otherwise she wouldn't have survived. She was very, blisfully, angry.


	6. Chapter 6

So, you already know I like drama. A bit dramatic action now:)

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'I didn't know!' she hissed at him.

'You didn't have the evidence. But somehow you knew. And you hoped vaguely I could confirm or dismiss whatever you thought you knew. Vaguely - because I don't think this was your main concern.' Sherlock swayed his one leg over the other - even with bare feet, he looked imperiously. He drawled out:

'What you were trying to achieve, was to distract me, Molly, weren't you?'

Molly's brain was trying to make sense of the rhytmic sound that had been haunting her ear for minutes already. The loose foot of Sherlock hitting against the chair, obsessively, nervously. Suddenly, she laughted out, looking at him incredulously:

'Oh god. Of course. Trick or treat. No no, trick _and_ treat, you did your trick and now you want you treat.' She shook her head.

'Wasn't it the deal? Or did you change your mind?' Sherlock's face was unreadable. His right hand on the armchair rest was now engaged in a tap dance, too.

Molly said slowly: 'You poor thing.' And then louder: 'You poor poor thing.' Her face cringed in disgust and disbelief. And then she spilled out, without warning.

'Oh god how I hate you. Hate you all. Men.' A chuckle escaped her upon the realisation she sounded like an embittered spinster. A second chuckle - when she weighed the possibility she probably was one. And then she just ceased to care. She spewed words into his unreadable face.

'It's so easy. So, you've got someone you love. You know - LOVE. In capital letters. You meet someone, - how do they call it, oh yes - a kindred soul, someone exactly like you. Once in a lifetime. Maybe you don't even see them again. Or you can't have them. Or you marry them, although you are married already. Because - isn't it so very special?' She asked in a mock awe. She took a dramatic pause (God, I'm crazy. So good. The wine. Molly was happy she had this damn wine. She poured herself some and supressed the thought about the benefits addictive substances may have).

'And there are others. You know - others. Everyday-kind-of people. People with the right keys. The right rings. People you need. People you need to clean up your shit. You know - shit? S-H-I-T,' she spelled. 'They all become incontinent in the end, you know? Because they are too busy with dying. And they don't want that pure love of theirs to wipe out their arses. No, they've got the right people for that -' her voice trembled, her hand trembled; Sherlock stirred in his chair, as if he wanted to prevent Molly from spilling the wine.

'Stay away from me!' she shouted. 'You.' There was so much disdain in this 'you' that Sherlock froze immediately. His gaze, directed at her, though, was firm, pinning her down to the floor. 'You don't know this. _This _you don't know. Why he came back to you and your mother to die. Maybe he _trusted _you more.'

'Oh you definitely trust me that much,' she laughed hoarsely. ' When someone needs to die, he comes to me. I am very good at it. Death becomes me.'

Sherlock opened his mouth, and clasped it again, and his eyes, at once unfocused, looked past her.

'You poor thing. You really don't have a clue sometimes, do you?' Surprisingly, she did feel sympathy: for a fracture of a moment, she _inhabited_ his vast, wretched, barren mind; the world was alarmingly complicated, fragmented; deductable yet uncomprehensible. Her face softened.

'He was the only one who didn't find my work - or me - weird. My dad. He loved me, I know. And I've always thought that he wasn't able to hurt a person. And now - there is this other woman whose husband has disappeared. He lied to everyone.' She said in her tiny, breaking voice. 'Isn't it funny? They all lie -'

Sherlock looked up: 'I am sure under those circumstances it was the best cho-'

'Oh God, I know -' Molly chuckled, and Sherlock couldn't conceal irritation. Molly continued: 'Tell it to that woman. Or maybe tell it to - you know whom -' and she laughted again. It was the first time she though Sherlock Holmes, with his long, sad, pale face was actually very funny.

Something else came to her mind.

'Maybe Jim was right.' Molly had never seen anyone so suddenly startled upon mentioning a name. 'Yes, Jim, the late Jim Moriarty. Oh, don't worry, he lied to me, too. Obviously. Not about everything.'

She took a deep breath. Sherlock was still funny, he was tragically funny.

'Sherlock, he said, is like an imploded star, a black hole, whose gravity prevents anything, including light, from escaping. Absorbs everything and reflects nothing.' Sherlock tried to speak, but Molly cut him off.

'Shut up. You don't know everything. He was nice to me.' She didn't notice how she started to speak languidly, dreamily. 'The things he did - to me - was the closest he could be to you - '

It was unfathomable, undecipherable - what this strange young woman with a childish mouth and eerily innocent eyes was saying, the images her words evoked was too much for his mind to bear. He commanded with a roughened voice: 'Shut up!'

Sherlock jumped up on his feet, only vaguely aware of what he was going to do next. She had gotten under his skin, into his brain, unharnessed and dissected him, just like he himself treated people when he was on investigation. But this was different, not the way he did it - methodically, coolly, purposefully. She didn't have a method; she was simply unleashing the devils she normally kept firmly under control. He didn't even know which part of him, which sore point of his being Molly had touched upon; he had only a very dim notion of how exactly she was able to do it. He merely knew it hurt; he was annoyed, no, he was wrathful. All he wanted was to hurt her back, but he didn't yet know how. The tiny fumbling figure in ridiculous clothes, her intense owlish glare infuriated him. And how she always has been more than this, a slender, perfectly chiselled china statuette with moon-lit eyes within the reach of his hand...

..,The flesh of her upper arms gave in to his merciless grip; his mouth hit her jaw, skimmed it roughly, bit on her throat, clenched itself on her lower lip. 'So he was nice to you -' he whispered against her flushed cheek and took her both lips between his teeth, covering her face with his heated fingers. When she gasped, as he cut off her breathing air, his tong intruded the warm cave of her mouth, writhing wildly around and grinding against her tongue. None of this was meant to give her pleasure, it wasn't fondling, it was very clear.

Instinctively, more out of self-defence than anything else, she pulled at his disheveled hair at the back of his head so that he moaned of actual pain. She caught his bewildered glance, breathing harshly.


	7. Chapter 7

Here you go again! This chapter was necessary.

Comments are always welcome!

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This could have spurred Sherlock into more rough-handed fondling, but, apparently, at the very same time his internal signalisation rang alarm bells. For the next couple of moments, Molly was to witness a short and intense internal struggle on his face resulting in a pained grimace; eventually, he shifted his weight away from her, letting her go; her ill-treated flesh and sore lips tintillated with a warm, pleasurable intensity. They eyed each other, panting, in the dim light falling from the window - out of a sudden, it was evening, the curtains were still open - and assessed the situation. Her fluffy pullover was pulled half-way down her shoulders. Sherlock's shirt hung open around his bare throat; appalled, Molly saw a fresh bruise next his adam's apple. Sherlock followed her glance, examined the bruise with his emanciated fingers - giving her shivers - and pulled the lapels of his robe together.

'I prefer the other drug,' he threw at her, still a bit breathily. Molly merely stared, out of breath herself, till Sherlock rolled his eyes and explained dryly:

'Out of sex and cocaine, I prefer cocaine.'

'You compare sex-x with co-cocaine?' Her mind was finally awake, her stuttering voice not quite yet.

'_To _cocaine. I compare sex to cocaine,' he corrected, very much in his element again. 'The same neural paths in the brain, the same physiology of pleasure: the lateral orbifrontal cortex - control - shuts down, the reward neurotransmitter dopamine kicks in. The difference that matters is: cocaine is less complicated.'

'What?' Molly was aghast. 'What about the addiction?'

'You're implying that sex isn't addictive? And it takes at least two. It is an extra complication when you want to stop. With drugs, I am on my own terms. I've always managed my addictions alone. Involving others is annoying.'

His calm and thought-over trait of thought made her sad, mostly because the tall beautiful man in the armchair apparently considered it a normal stand of affairs. What a strange day; in a few hours they shared more than she ever did with her own mother, her friends (she only head a few, and saw only one more or less regularly), her boyfriend (non-existant) for a very long time. It might never happen again. She had to know more. Shyly, she ventured:

'Do you know it from your own experience?'

Sherlock flashed his slant eyes in her direction. 'I presume you mean sex. Don't be ridiculous. I've experimented in due time, obviously.'

'A lot?' Molly knew she sounded silly, but she was slightly taken aback by his readiness to answer.

'Yes, it was easy. Males are a very convenient test group when it comes to sex.'

Molly thought this over, unsure if she got it right. Flushing and starting to panic internally, she asked again:

'You slept with - men?'

Sherlock grimaced contemptuously:

'Does it shock you? I told you already: I had to gain experience and avoid complications. I discovered that the objectives of most males are compatible with mine. You can have sex with a man without introductions.'

She felt a pang in her heart at the last words. Poor poor Sherlock, she thought involuntarily.

'But not because you are - er - not attracted to women?'

Sherlock wavered, jerked his head at Molly and said dryly, skimming her silhouette matter-of-factly:

'Judging from my physiological reactions to your body - my heightened pulse, breathing and arousal - I very much am.'

Instinctively, Molly crossed her arms before her chest, shivering and blushing. Out of all shards of thoughts floating in her head, she tried to extract one which bothered her most, and it was:

'But - it means you have never ever slept with a woman?'

The tall man sniffed with indignation, endowing her with a contemptuous look: 'So what does it matter? What is the difference?'

Molly mumbled in utter confusion: 'Eh -'

'Oh for god's sake, Molly, I don't mean the anatomy. But think - what is the most important sex organ in humans? This!' and he pointed to his head. 'Sexual pleasure is not bound to one's sex.'

Molly sighed. What he said was true. In theory. She shook her head.

'What?' Sherlock snapped at her, frowning. 'You think I am wrong?'

'I don't. I don't think anything.' She wrapped herself tighly in her fluffy warm jacket and walked away from him. 'No, wait, I think I'm going home now.'

She grappled her bag from the table, zipped it open. Very carefully, she took out a tiny plastic package with white powder in it, turned around to check on the angular, pale face with hollow cheekbones and vigilant feline eyes. He did look like a huge, scrawny, very hungry cat. And it was no longer clear exactly what kind of prey it was lured by. 'Here.' Sherlock lowered his eyes for a fracture of a second. 'And here.' She fished another tiny pack out of her very own horn of plenty. _Philip Morris light._ She tossed it to Sherlock. Holmes caught it on the way with his ethereally slim fingers. He did it without even looking, in one fluent predatory movement. Out of a sudden, Molly had a vision of this elegant hand tangled into the hair of a man, kneeled right before Holmes. This was so unexpected, the vision and the embarrassing warmth in her groin immediately after. She was getting aroused by homoerotical phantasies involving Sherlock Holmes receiving a blowjob; at which point it really is time to go home, she thought.

Suddenly, the aforementioned long fingers snatched the sacket of coke in front of her nose. Sherlock Holmes rushed towards the kitchen with the swiftness even she hadn't anticipated. Molly couldn't help a stab of disappointement, althought it was, of course, so very predictable. The necessary equipment was still in the bag; with a sigh, she headed for the kitchen.

And she heard running water.

'What are you doing?' Molly's eyes widened as she saw what she had already suspected. 'Do you know how much it cost?!'

'I certainly do.' Holmes was very calm. 'I introduced the tosser into the trade. Unless he is punching above his weight now.'

He threw a smug look down his nose to Molly, who had the impression her feet were frozen into the floor. Sherlock Holmes' greenish eyes sparkled with cruel delight.


End file.
